


Tom's Little Angel

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gentle Sex, Grooming, Loss of Virginity, Orphans, Pedophilia, Possessive Tom Riddle, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When she was nine years old, Hermione's parents died from a collapsing bomb shelter. Traumatised and without anywhere else to go, Hermione joins Wool's Orphanage, where she finds that she can't connect with any of her fellow orphans. One day, however, she meets a handsome teenage boy by the name of Tom, who tells her that he's just like her, and that he's come to take her away, to a large house in a country village, far away from the war.Little did she know that Tom was obsessed with her. She was the most beautiful little girl he had ever laid his eyes on—she was simply irresistible.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 20
Kudos: 215





	Tom's Little Angel

Hermione stood by the window, her little face pressing against the cold glass, watching the others play in the bleak, bare courtyard. Somewhere in her mind, she desired to join them—but she knew she couldn't. She wasn't like the others, not just because they were older than her—some of them had even invited her to their games, to their merrymaking and joy—but because she didn't _deserve_ to be happy. She wasn't sure if she deserved anything; surely, she didn't deserve to be in Wool's Orphanage. The Matron, a stern but kindly woman named Ms. Cole, a woman whose face was as worn and tired as London itself, let Hermione join her lot out of pure charity. The bombing had stopped a month ago, but for months, Ms. Cole and the children of Wool's were away from it all. In the early months of the bombing, they made the prudent decision to retire to the Northern countryside. They were away from the _sirens,_ the _thunder,_ the _fire and the smoke_ and the screams. Hermione, however, wasn't an orphan of Wool's until recently; for months, she had been in London, under the constant barrage of the Nazi _Luftwaffe_. 

She was nine years old, but it was as though her parents' ages, thirty-three and thirty-five, had been added together with her age, upon their deaths—Hermione felt as though she was seventy-six. Perhaps not precisely seventy-six, but Hermione knew what old people were like: morose and glum, like black magpies brooding on laundry lines. Father said that some were veterans of _The Great War_ , the _Last War,_ the _War To End All Wars_ , and it was what they saw and what they heard, that made them sulk forever and ever. And now Hermione was just like them. The men in the trenches saw their best friends die, father had told her, and Hermione saw the ones she loved dearest—her parents—die, like eggs with blood and bones instead of yolk cracking onto the floor.

At first, whenever she recalled it, she would cry—it was so _unfair_ that her parents died, while she didn't; it seemed impossible, as though God made a mistake on his job—and how could that be possible? Then, she recalled it out of stubborn persistence—she stopped crying, but she played the memory again and again in her mind, because if she didn't, she knew she would forget not only the memory, but also the faces of her parents—and what greater betrayal could there be, than forgetting the faces of the man and the woman who brought you into the world? Finally, as Hermione became confident that her constant replaying of the memory had firmly rooted it into her subconscious, she continued replaying the memory, simply because there was nothing else to do. She replayed the memory, like how some of the orphans fiddled with their spoons or scratched their heads.

 _They were in a tube station_ , huddled with many others—hundreds, under the dim, fluttering light of the yellow lamps (Hermione's stomach turned to knots whenever she thought of that dim, eerie yellow light, like the breath of a ghost), while the overhead sirens blared on, unceasingly, preventing any possibility of conversation. Hermione was held tightly by her mother, while her father whistled a lighthearted tune in an effort to calm her down—a pathetic, redundant attempt in the face of the blaring sirens. The thunder of the explosions grew closer and closer, and mother's clasp around Hermione tightened so much that it _hurt_ , while father's long, firm fingers stroked her small hands, at first gently, and then more and more quickly, frantically, as though he was rubbing wood on sandpaper, all the while the explosions grew _closer_ and _louder_ until they were earsplitting, as though thunder was striking right next to her.

She wasn't dumb. Hermione knew that that the tube stations weren't impenetrable, no matter how many times father told her they were safe, as though they were fortresses against flightless monsters. The other people around Hermione were becoming more and more panicked, and all of them were veterans of the underground—something was different this time. Danger was imminent, danger was close—danger was breathing down her neck. The _sirens_ stopped wailing, but the bombs grew louder, and the tube began _shaking_ , like a peppercorn grinder over dinner. Hermione didn't want to _die_ , she didn't want her parents to _die_ , none of them deserved death—none of them were soldiers—why didn't the German pilots feel bad? Didn't they know they were _butchering_ innocents?

Then, it happened—and it happened so suddenly that even now, Hermione couldn't wrap her head around it; it was like flipping a coin, and somehow getting both heads and tails. A paradox against time.

It shouldn't have been possible for the explosions to get any louder, but they did—it was as though a giant was stomping on the ground above them again, and again. The ceiling came tumbling down like a ceramic vase smashed by a hammer—for the sliver of a second, the sun became visible, even if half-obscured by a grey cloud and a black tower of smoke—before everything came tumbling down.

Hermione screamed, burying her head in her knees as her mother tried to protect her by covering her—a useless gesture—and Hermione was so sure that in a moment, she would die, and meet mother and father and Saint Peter at the Gates of Heaven—before the _Tingles_ came to her skin, stronger than they'd ever been before, at the most opportune and inopportune time possible. The _Tingles—_ named after how they felt in her arms and stomach—was Hermione's strange power; it was the force that she, and seemingly she alone had that allowed her to make impossible things happen. Sometimes, it helped her in small and convenient ways; books would open themselves to the page she last left them, or she'd trip over while running and find her legs free of scratches. Other times, it became an inconvenience—for her eighth birthday, she was upset that her cake tasted like bread, because there were no sugar rations at the time—and it exploded. But never had it done anything so dire and powerful as what it did in the tube station—it saved her life.

For some time, perhaps a few seconds, possibly a few minutes, Hermione sat still with her arms around her ankles, and her head hidden in her knees. The explosions grew softer, quieter, until they merely sounded like thunder from somewhere far, far away. She was alive, she was _alive_. But it was too quiet, and then Hermione noticed it was extremely _hot_ , and there was the aroma, or the _odour_ of burning meat, like smoked sausages or grilled lamb chops or sizzling bacon—so she opened her eyes, and beheld _hell_.

She was in a crater, almost perfectly spherical if it weren't for the clusters of charred-black debris and clumps of _flesh_ and _skin_ equally covered in the dark red of blood and the mild grey of ash _everywhere_ around her. Then, Hermione felt something wet and warm on her face, on her arms, on her legs—with a trembling hand, she fumbled against herself to discover what it was—she had her suspicions—and they were confirmed. Flesh, ashes. _Mum_.

Hermione screamed, and she didn't stop screaming even when her throat became terribly sore—she didn't stop screaming until a man had found her, and calmed her down with a blanket, before taking her away.

For months following, she would live with a pair of elderly women, two sisters widowed by the bombing, the tall, thin Mrs. Welles and the kindly, talkative Mrs. Cotterill. Eventually, a man in a white uniform took her away, and sent her to Wool's, where Ms. Cole eagerly enlisted her. The other orphans had tried to befriend her, but there was nothing to say to them. Although Hermione felt like she had something in common with her peers—the fact they were parentless—she knew they weren't truly like her. How many of them were responsible for the deaths of their parents? Hermione was tethered to the world, like a shipwrecked boat crashed into an island that no one would ever find. Why did the _Tingles_ leave her unharmed from the Nazi bomb? Why couldn't it save her parents, too? The _Tingles_ often did what Hermione wanted them to do, in one way or another—but she wanted to be with mother and father, more than anything. It should have saved them with her, or it should have let the bomb send all of them to heaven. Why didn't it? Hermione didn't know, and there was no one she could ask these questions.

The others had tried talking to her, but she said nothing, not because she was shy—contrarily, every adult mother and father introduced to Hermione noted how talkative and how _eloquent_ she was—but because there was nothing to say. She couldn't laugh anymore. Playing wasn't fun anymore. It was as though she lost a sense, like she became deaf to happiness, blind to joy. The others, seeing that she was unresponsive, made a game to try and pry a response out of her. First, it was playful—they asked if she wanted their porridge and bread during lunches and dinners, for orphans were perpetually hungry—but she said nothing. Then, they grew upset, angry, as though Hermione not talking to them meant she thought she was better than them—nothing could be less true—and she became the subject of taunts. Only words, at first—" _What kind of name is Hermione?_ ", " _She doesn't say anything 'cause she's dumb, not 'cause she's smart.", "You look like a hag with your hair!_ "

Then, they became physical. Oliver Mills threw rocks at her, and when he noticed that sometimes, the rocks would _explode_ instead of hit her, his efforts only escalated. There was still a small red bump on her forehead from them. People began stealing her things, although she didn't have much to begin with, and Ms. Cole had to provide her new shoes, which were much less comfortable than the red wool-stuffed loafers mother had brought her. Hermione never fought back, not until the day they tried to cut her hair. Her hair was long and thick like a bush, and dad sometimes called her _furball_ because of it. It was the last thing she had in connection to her old world, she wouldn't let anyone take it from her.

So when Oliver Mills and Eric Whalley barged into her room one day, each with a pair of scissors, she finally gave in, and spoke to them with words—"GO AWAY!"

"Ye shoulda' said somethin' long ago," Oliver sneered with malicious glee in his beady grey eyes, "Ye can't choose when ta' talk an' when yer don't. Yer not better than us." He eagerly rushed towards Hermione like a leopard after its prey, and her chest tightened like an elephant was squeezing it with its trunk, so she shouted at them, again—"I SAID GO AWAY!"

It was as though a gust of wind had escaped from Hermione's mouth. She suddenly felt light, and the two boys were thrown against the walls of her room with a _thump_. As they got up, they looked at her with terrible fear, as though she was the predator and they were the prey, before they quickly scurried out of her room. Shortly after the event, Ms. Cole gave her a bedroom all to _herself_ —a luxury, at the orphanage, although she once had a bedroom all to herself anyway, before the house it was in blew up.

Since then, no one tried to interact with Hermione in any way, let alone talk to her. She was utterly alone, until the day she met _Tom_. It was the second day of July, and even years later, Hermione wasn't sure whether it was the best day of her life or the worst. But it did change everything.

Tom Riddle was fifteen, then. Although lean and dripping with boyish charm like a teenage boy, he was already taller than most grown men. He was as tall as Hermione's father, and as a matter of fact, when Hermione first saw him, she was immediately reminded of her father. He wore a grey vest—orphanage issue, over a neat white shirt. His hair was thick and dark, swept handsomely to the side, with a few curls threatening to drop over his right eye, but never quite blocking it. His face was like something out of a painting; his features were perfect, and excessively so. His proportions were perfectly harmonious, but that wasn't all—where there was excess, like icing on the cake, there was _handsome_ excess, like his thick eyebrows, or his pronounced cheekbones.

He stood at her door, leaning to one side of the frame, smiling at her—although his smile was small (he revealed no teeth, and like father, you almost needed to _search_ Tom's face for his smile), it was there, and it made Hermione feel warm.

"Hello, Hermione," He slowly drawled out every syllable, "My name is Tom Riddle; I don't doubt that you've already heard of me."

She had heard of him, indeed; the other orphans whispered _Riddle_ in the same cautious tone one would pronounce _Satan_. Hermione gathered that he, like herself, had done something, perhaps with the _Tingles_ , too, to cause the other orphans to fear him. But those were only rumours, and even if she wasn't the only one with the _Tingles_ , she didn't care—the _Tingles_ weren't good, and they were quite possibly evil. Now, however, as she saw Tom Riddle, she saw a tall, handsome boy, who seemed sweet and caring in the way her father had been, and so, she nodded at him.

"I've heard about you, too." Tom walked over to her bed, and sat by her, placing his gentle arm around her shoulder, "And I was very pleased when I found out that you're just like me."

Hermione curiously tilted her head at the older boy's handsome features, and she saw him looking down at her with an absurd amount of adoration. He pulled something out of his pocket—a long _stick_ , the length of a ruler, holding it in a way that suggested he was very, _very_ familiar with it. He pointed it in the air, and then—

A _butterfly_. A _butterfly_ came out of Tom's stick, like smoke out of a pipe. It was much bigger than any ordinary butterfly—its magnificent wings were as colourful and iridescent as the window of a cathedral, and each wing was as big as Hermione's palms. She hadn't seen anything so colourful or so _beautiful_ in months.

"It's pretty!" Hermione chirped, "Can I touch it? Please!"

"Of course, darling." Tom stroked her face with his long fingers.

Something seemed _wrong_ about the boy; they had hardly known each other for a minute, and he already called her _darling_. Not even her cousins did that—they knew words like _darling_ and _sweetheart_ were the privileges of mothers and fathers and perhaps even aunts and uncles. Nonetheless, Hermione touched the butterfly—it felt _unreal_ , but in a delightful way. It was hot like a bowl of hot stew, and it was soft like a blanket. Hermione squealed and retracted her hand, but slowly reached out to touch it again, tracing her fingers on its wings slowly, savouring the touch the second time.

"You should come with me." Tom said with sudden urgency, "We'll leave this place. I have a huge, beautiful house in a country town untouched by the war—a _Muggle_ orphanage is no place for a girl like you."

Dozens of questions buzzed through Hermione's mind—" _If you have a house in the country, why are you here?", "Why are you helping me?", "What on Earth does 'Muggle' mean?"_ —but they quickly quelled as she continued stroking the hot, soft butterfly. She instinctively trusted Tom; he was kind, handsome, and he was able to make _butterflies_ with his Tingles, using his stick—a wand, perhaps? Hermione hadn't felt curious at anything in months; she'd almost forgotten how pleasant it felt. And the idea of leaving London was greatly appealing. The debris, the smoke, the windowless, grey remains of buildings—all of it reminded Hermione of her mother and father.

Their escape was planned for the evening of the eighth of July; it was easier to leave unnoticed during the night than during the day. Tom had told her to pack her belongings, an activity that took her no more than half an hour, owing to how little she possessed. They escaped through her bedroom's window, from which there was _somehow_ a ladder that led straight to the entrance courtyard of the orphanage. Then, they walked down the street together, hand in hand, Tom with his large suitcase, Hermione with her tiny one.

"We're going to _apparate_ to our new home." He said, clutching her small hand tightly, "Apparition is a form of magical travel; you may feel sick upon reaching our destination. If you need to vomit, don't hold back." With that, Tom pulled out his wand, pointed it forth at nothing in particular, and gave a flick. Then, everything became blurry.

It was as though Hermione was being sucked down a giant drain, and as per Tom's warning, she indeed felt _very_ sick. Everything was very loud, but indefinitely so, and her sight was filled with blinding grey light—it was as though she was between clouds during a thunderstorm. But then it stopped, and she fell onto the floor—onto soil, onto the softness of grass.

"Welcome home, Hermione."

Tom gestured to his house—and what a house it was! They were in the front yard of it: a splendid garden with well-trimmed hedges, patches of beautiful flowers and lovely trees, with three fountains and a marble statue of a man riding a horse in the centre of it. The house itself appeared to have at least three levels. It was painted white, with two protruding wings from the left and right, and a foreboding ceiling of gleaming blue tiles that reflected the moonlight. All the windows were black; none of the lights within the house were on, except one, in a corner of the third level.

With a lazy flick of his wand, Tom opened the door, gesturing for Hermione to enter first before he followed her inside. The interior of the house was charming, in an old-timey way. The furniture, although old—everything in the house looked to be styled from the nineteenth century, if not earlier—was very warm and welcoming. There were carpets, vases, sofas, elegant small tables and pretty paintings in every room. Every window had a warm blue curtain, and the house faintly smelled of polished wood and something sweet, perhaps honey.

"Dinner's ready and waiting for us; I told the elves that you would be very hungry." Hermione's ears perked up; she wanted to ask about the _elves_ , but stayed quiet out of politeness, and of a strange _fear_ lurking in her chest. Tom lead her to the dining room, where a chandelier with a hundred crystals hung over a long, dark table draped with an elegant red cloth. Surely enough, there was a feast fit for a _King_ on the table—everything looked like it was from a fancy restaurant, from the roast chicken to the colourful vegetable casserole to the cakes with decorative icing and sliced fruits. Tom took a seat, and Hermione waited for him to tell her which of the many seats to sit on, before he made himself clear—

"Sit in my lap."

It was a strange request, but Hermione obliged. She sat in her parents' laps sometimes, when she was younger, but she knew that it was different with Tom. There was eagerness in his voice, excitement, as though there was nothing he wanted more in the world, than for Hermione to be in his lap.

"Where's everyone else?" Hermione asked him. After all, there were twelve chairs, and cutlery set for a dozen people—not to mention the food itself was nothing short of a banquet. "It's just the two of us." Tom whispered into her ear, "Eat to your heart's content." She was glad to let Tom indulge her; she hadn't had anything but porridge, stale bread, and pickled vegetables in months. The succulent juices of meats, the oily crusts of pastries and their flavourful, spiced stuffings, and the sweet creaminess of cakes all melted in her mouth like soft butter. She was in heaven, she was so immersed in the delicacies before her that she _nearly_ didn't notice how Tom was eating _nothing_ , and how something hard and pointy in Tom's pocket was poking at her butt. Surely it wasn't what she thought it was…

"Aren't you hungry, Tom?" She asked meekly.

In response, he gently wrapped one arm around Hermione's stomach and another over her chest, before he dipped his head down, and _lic_ _ked_ her neck. She gulped— _what was going on_? _At_ first, he gave one small lick, as though to see whether or not he liked how she _tasted,_ but then he went into a feverish frenzy, running his hands up and down her body, touching her small, barely-existent breasts, pinching her here and there with his long fingers, while licking and kissing her neck, her chin, her cheeks, as though she was something big and tasty, like a gigantic lollipop.

Fear gripped Hermione's stomach and she put her cutlery on her plate. Her dad _never_ did _anything_ like this to her. She felt the pointy thing in Tom's pants thrust between her buttocks; it was rather uncomfortable and ticklish. He let out a strange groan, as though he couldn't decide whether he was in pain or in pleasure. Then, he began to shake Hermione in his lap as though she was a sack of grain and he was a farmer trying to get everything out of her. She bounced against his pointy thing in his pants, which continued to tickle her unpleasantly, and she did something rather silly—she picked her cutlery up again, and resumed eating. She was too scared to ask Tom what he was doing.

"I can't help myself," He said apologetically, before his voice suddenly changed tone, "You're a precious little jewel, Hermione, and you're mine. All _mine_. You feel so good, and you don't even know it." His tongue, hot, wet and slimy like a large slug, tickled the back of her ear. "Take your time eating. Let me know when you're full."

She had overestimated how much she could eat; it took time to digest things, father had told her, which was why it was important to eat slowly. But father wasn't there, so she ate very quickly, and now her stomach hurt. She ate quickly because the sensation of food in her mouth distracted her from thinking about Tom's hands and his tongue, which navigated all over her body, like a cartographer drawing up a map.

"I-I'm finished... I'm full." Hermione said. Without a word, Tom eagerly stood up, grabbing her in his arms as he did, like how father held her when she was a toddler. The uneaten food was left on the table; Hermione wanted to ask if they ought to do the dishes, but Tom hurried up the stairs, and rushed into a room, a bedroom.

There was a king-sized four poster bed with a rich, furry purple blanket, the colour of wine. It looked quite comfortable, but Hermione knew that Tom didn't carry her into the room to _sleep_ right away. There were two bedside tables, each with different things on them—one had a stack of books on them, a magnifying glass, and a neatly arranged set of pens—the other, a handheld mirror, a small cylindrical container for makeup, and a nightcap. A bed for a man and a woman; but who? There was no one else in the house, except the _elves_ that apparently made Hermione's dinner. There were so many unanswered questions.

Tom dropped Hermione on the bed, before he rapidly changed out of his clothes, discarding them onto the floor. Once fully naked, he turned to Hermione, with a feral, hungry look on his face—and Hermione knew at once that he wanted her to strip to the nude as well. She quickly ran her eyes down his body—lean and pale, he was almost like a corpse, but more handsome. She saw his penis briefly, and she winced—it rose up, like a tiny arm _saluting_ her—she quickly turned away. She shivered as she took off her shoes, and unlaced her checkered green shirtdress—a gift from her grandmother. She wasn't sure what Tom wanted from her, and her awareness of her own ignorance made her all the more scared. She trembled, and Tom noticed her trembling; he stroked her chin.

"Don't worry; I won't hurt you." He drawled, before he lightly pushed her onto the bed, took her by the shoulders and made her lay facing the ceiling, before he went over her, his head looking down at her's. He kissed her lips, his tongue aggressive in her mouth, exploring her teeth, her tongue, and the insides of her cheeks like a bird trying to escape a small glass box. For what seemed like a few minutes, he continued kissing her, and she began to cry—she wasn't sure why; she was a little scared, true, but she wasn't _sad_. She just had the best meal of her life, and she was away from London liked she wanted—why was she crying? Tom wasn't _hurting_ her, but he was making her very, very uncomfortable. She just wanted to sleep, or see him make another butterfly from his wand. She didn't want this.

Tom rose from her, and gave her a pitiful look as he noticed her sobbing. "Don't be sad, Hermione, my darling, my honeycomb." He stroked her cheeks, "You're delicious, did you know that? There's nothing and no one like you in the world." Then, he flipped her over as easily as one would flip a book, and she was lying with her stomach and her face down against the blanket.

She felt Tom's warm, slimy tongue creep up her legs, slowly moving from her calves to the back of her knees, like a careful lizard, then from one buttock to another, back and forth as though he couldn't figure out which one tasted better. He decided on settling his tongue between her legs, before moving down to her _lady parts_. It was ticklish in an unbearably nice way—Hermione _didn't_ want it to feel nice! She realised that _nothing_ was right about what was happening to her; she wasn't sure what was going on, but she was sure Tom was committing a great sin—she had even cried, why didn't he stop at that—and perhaps she was sinning, too! Her entire body shook at Tom's mouth between her legs, and she could smell her salty tears on the blanket.

Then, Tom sat up on top of her, his hard thighs squeezing her small hips, and something wrinkly and fleshly pressed into her buttocks. Slowly, Hermione turned her head around, and saw Tom tightly holding his penis, rapidly shifting his hand up and down, like he was shaking a small bottle, while the wrinkly sack of flesh that dangled at the bottom of his penis rested on her butt. He was moaning and his intense eyes bore into her small face, and she quickly turned away in fear. "I… I… I-I'm not going to _penetrate_ you… my baby," he panted, "Not today… I promised I wouldn't hurt you." Hermione's small body shook from Tom's wobbling legs, and she heard his quivering breathes go quicker and quicker.

At last, he let out a long, long moan, almost like a yawn, and something hot, sticky, and _smelly_ splattered all over Hermione's back. The scent of it, metallic and salty, a little like blood, a little like soil, filled the room. Hermione dared not look back, and she realised she was crying again. She thought of her parents; would they approve of what was happening to her? Tom had fed her better than the orphanage did in months; she had a much nicer place to live—but what was he doing? He promised her _magic—_ was this magic?

"I love you, Hermione." Tom whispered in a shaking breath, his heavy body collapsing into her little one, "You're my little angel." And once again, he kissed her neck.

* * *

I owe a great deal to CocoOil, who proofread and thoroughly edited this chapter. Please give her fic a read, if you're interested in something stylistically similar: [The Riddle Twins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21756436/chapters/51907204)


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